HD 'Theorem Arc Gravity Number 5'
by tigersilver
Summary: AU; EWE. Eighth Year is full of pitfalls and potential stumbles, snags in the way and they're both tired, so very tired, of being the centre of attention. But science works its theoretical magic and gravity, its inevitable pull.


HP Theorem Arc 'Gravity'

_[Gee, um. Gravity makes things go together. So much for the scientific explanation.]_

_-o0o-_

_Hogwarts, September, 1999_

"I don't understand why we keep tripping over him, Harry."

"Well, we've all got these lectures we share, Herm—"

"I know that, Harry, but he's everywhere—I turn around and I'm practically on top of him!"

"It's a right pain in my arse," Ron chimed in on cue, catching them up halfway down the corridor to NEWTS-level Transfiguration. "Bloody lurker."

Which was practically a compliment from Ron, at least when it came to Malfoy.

"Yes, well, it's not like the two of you aren't used to him, now. I admit he's a bit stiff still—"

"Like a bleeding poker!" Ron interjected. "Bleeding broomstick, more like; what a fucking git!"

"And formal—" Harry went on, doggedly.

"Language, Ron!" Hermione scolded.

"But you just have to give him a chance—" Harry kept at it, trying to forge a sort of peace.

"We _have_, Harry," Hermione's intonation clearly indicated the level of herculean patience she'd needed for dealing with Malfoy during the war. She even stopped, right in the middle of the hallway, to stare at him. "But it's over now; we all just need to get on with our lives, you included, and I don't think it's a good idea—"

"And Malfoy's part of it," Harry interrupted quickly, before Hermione could say something unsayable. "I mean, erm. There's only so many people left, you know? Here, I mean. Overall, but Slytherin. In particular, yes—they've been practically decimated. So, we're going to see them—the ones we_ can_ see, I mean, not the ones in Azkaban. Right?"

Ron grunted, but even he made no rude comment about Malfoy's likelihood of visiting Azkaban on a long-term visit. It just wasn't going to happen, not at this point, given the sheer amount of information he'd turned over while Voldemort was 'the' Malfoy houseguest of note.

"Now, Harry, it's just that it's beginning to be a bit ridiculous." Hermione would've stuck her hands on her hips, a la Molly, but fortunately her hands were full of texts to return to the Library, and thus they were spared. "You know," she shook her head at him, acting as if he should understand whatever it was she was telling him without, er—telling him.

"What is?" Harry, who'd been ready to move forward again, stopped suddenly, frowning at both his two best friends. Though, perhaps, his Slytherin-self whispered silently, this wasn't the best place to do this, on the way to a class and in a crowded hallway. "What is, Hermione?" said the Gryffindor. "What's so ridiculous about it?"

"Oh—" Hermione looked slightly taken aback at Harry's ramped-up intensity. She glanced away, obviously uncomfortable with being put on the spot. "Just—I don't get it, Harry. It's as if he's your shadow or something—"

"Look, we get along, Hermione. And, too, we—"

"Not like that, you don't, Harry," Ron threw in. "Not in public, at least. Oh, look—come _on_; I don't want to listen to McGonagall gripe if we're late again. I don't know about you two but I don't need a detention."

"Oh, he's right, Harry—let's go," Hermione looked startled at the numbers on Ron's Tempus. "We'll talk about this later."

"I don't see really what there is to talk about," Harry grumbled, but he did it under his breath, as he trailed somewhat forlornly after Ron and Hermione. "It's fine."

Strange, what peace did. Things that perfectly acceptable during wartime were no longer, it seemed. And friendships, forged in the worst of circumstances, were oddly strained.

_-o0o-_

"Problems?"

Malfoy's mouth was pressed up against Harry's ear. His breath tickled as he lipped his way around the scalloped edge.

"Harry?"

"Hmmm?" Harry was happily enjoying the little pang of pure electricity racing up his spine; he barely heard Malfoy's mutter as actual words. "No—no! Nothing I can't handle. Don't worry about it."

Draco pulled away, scowling, and looked for a moment exactly as he had as a Sixth Year—petulant, superior, spoilt—until one looked a little more closely and saw there were fine lines round his eyes and mouth that hadn't been there two years ago. They were gradually fading—lines of strain, not real wrinkles, them—as were the purplish circles under his grey eyes, but it was months along now and neither of them were quite what they had been before the final battle. And that wasn't petulance, either—it was concern.

He buried his unhappy face in Harry's neck and mumbled mutinously, tightening his arms about his lover.

"If you fucking tell me, maybe I can do something—"

"Draco."

"Something about it. _Wanker_."

"Draco, it's alright. It's just Ron and Hermione."

"…Oh."

Harry pressed a light kiss against one corner of Draco's folded-tight lips. They parted, ever so slightly, and he and Draco shared a long, speaking glance over noses and spectacle rims. Draco shrugged. Harry sighed.

"Yeah."

_-o0o-_

_Hogwarts, October, 1999_

"—stares at him all the time; it's sickening, Herm, I swear."

"Well…I suppose so, Ron, but—"

"I mean, I thought they'd be done with this by now—you know, just blowing off steam, it's alright, but—it's like sodding animals, Herm—fucking _animals_!"

"Ron—"

"He's staring right back at him, too. Sixth Year all over again—I'm going to vomit if they keep this going, Hermione, I tell you. No lie. Turns my stomach. Just can't watch, you know. It's bloody _Malfoy_."

"Yes…still, Ron, perhaps we should—"

Ron fidgeted; played with his quill, turning it over and over, frowning at it.

"If we talk to him, maybe," Hermione murmured, petting the back of his hand, fiddling with the red hairs on his knuckles, "or perhaps to Malfoy; I mean, it's not like _he's_ got any finer feelings for Harry but still, he's—"

"_You've _got to say something to Harry, Hermione," Ron went right on, galloping roughshod over Hermione's soothing mutter. He ripped his hand away; waved it aimlessly. "He'll listen to you—if it's me, he won't, but _you_. Yeah, _so, _Hermione," Ron nodded. Rose and started pacing, speaking as if more to himself or an invisible Harry than his girlfriend, who only watched with sad eyes. "Tell him he's got to be done with this foolishness right now; somebody's going to get the wrong idea about them and Malfoy's still a dangerous chap, there's no denying that, and I don't want Harry caught up in it—he's had enough to deal with—we've _all _had enough to deal with and no more, _ever_—"

Abruptly running out of steam, Ron whomped his arse back onto the much-abused cushions once more, instinctively reaching out to haul Hermione closer, so they were tucked together in the pose that always gave them comfort: the two of them against the world: a single unit, come what may.

"Hey—oi, you two!"

It was Harry, suddenly, easing onto the couch in front of the common room's crackling hearth and grinning stupidly—innocently—at the two of them, huddled together, Hermione now firmly in Ron's lap.

"Wotcher whispering about?" Harry quirked his dark brows at them, glancing from one stolid, set expression to the other. "Secrets?"

"Harry!"

Ron snorted, but he didn't reply, turning his face away sharply into Hermione's hair and folding his lips thin as blades.

"…er, guys?"

_-o0o-_

"Weasley."

"Malfoy."

"Pardon, please. I need to pass by."

"…Yeah."

_-o0o-_

"It's just that I don't see what the problem is, Hermione," Harry whined. He drummed his fingertips on the library carrel he and Hermione were sharing. It was hard to find a spot clear enough to tap, there were so many texts she'd insisted they needed for swotting up on Astronomy.

"You never do, Harry."

"I mean, it's not a big deal—well, maybe if we were Muggles or something, but not _now_, not _here_, so—"

"Right, right, Harry. But, you should just…just—"

"What?" Harry glared at her, his chin firming up pugnaciously. "What, Hermione?"

"Look, er. Exactly how…serious _are _you, Harry? About Malfoy?"

_-o0o-_

"Thanks for the Charms notes, before." A grudging acknowledgement, but something all the same. Draco forced a smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"Not a problem, Weasley. You can pass them on to Granger if you wish. Potter copied them earlier from me but he's with McGonagall all the afternoon yet. Give them back to him when you're done."

"Ah…yeah," the Weasel nodded, awkward still. Always awkward, in Draco's opinion. Born that way. "Thanks. Er—Aurors. Supposed to see if Shacklebolt meant what he said about the DA members—you know, joining up?" Ron swallowed, glanced away briefly, caught all the various avid eyes upon them from passing students, and glanced back again to grey eyes that regarded him seriously. This was all far too out in the open, Ron decided; if he must deal with Malfoy, Ron would rather it be somewhere with fewer witnesses. And sadly, for Harry, he must.

"You know, Weasley?" Malfoy drawled, with a lift of a dark blond brow and a questioning lilt in his voice. He hadn't shoved right off as Ron expected him to, which rather left Ron at a loss. Not much in common, he and Malfoy—only Harry. Only ever Harry, apparently.

"Yeah?" But perhaps this was the opening he'd been waiting for, Ron thought, and took a calming breath. He could maybe talk to the arse—if he had to. Find out what was what, at least, for Harry's sake.

"I'm beginning to think you don't like me." The brow went higher yet-and perhaps this was Draco's chance to get to the meat of the matter. Harry was uncomfortable and Draco didn't like that.

_-o0o-_

"Um."

"Exactly, Harry. Think about it, won't you? That's all we're asking."

Harry flopped his head down on _Charms, Charmers and Prince Charming: Is He a Muggle Myth?_ and huffed his general dissatisfaction with life, people who questioned him and people who caused him to question himself. _Caring_ people, like Hermione, who didn't want to see him at anyone's mercy, but especially not Malfoy's. _Worried_ people, like Ron, who took after his mother far more than he'd ever admit.

"Right….right."

_-o0o-_

"Yeah?" Ron raised a ginger eyebrow in return. He stepped sideways, into a convenient alcove, and Malfoy followed discreetly, taking their low-voiced exchange out of the public's purview. "What makes you think that, Malfoy?"

"Pardon me if I'm misconstruing your actions in any way, Weasley," Malfoy went on mendaciously, his tone decidedly sardonic, but not incendiary, "but I've noticed you and Granger aren't, shall we say, _au fait_ with the thought of Potter and myself involved on a...more serious basis. You both seem so dreadfully…uncomfortable." He smirked at the Weasel meaningfully—or rather dragged out his easy sneer, one lip curling, and displayed it, knowing it would rile the Ronnikins a bit. "Or perhaps it's with the concept of two blokes shagging, instead. Tell me, is that a Muggle value of Granger's you've learnt to admire or simply a personal preference you've allowed to colour your perceptions?"

"Huh? No!" Ron was appalled—honestly. Like he'd ever, ever be like Harry's hated Dursleys! The thought made him sick, it did. "Merlin, no, you twat! That's not it!"

Blonde eyebrow trumped red, by way of arching higher and at a more saturnine angle that had taken simply years to perfect. Flushing, Ron gave it up altogether and reverted to a basic, all-purpose frown. Oddly enough, though—to Draco's mind-he didn't jump instantly at Draco to hex him or hammer him with his beefy fists, as he had been wont to do in years past.

He seemed genuinely puzzled—and concerned. Malfoy, sensing that, let his sneer go and stared at his ancient enemy with equal curiosity. They'd managed a certain civility lately, if not pushed overmuch or nagged to do so, he and the Weasel. And—in an odd way—they were united for a common cause, still.

Ron gulped, flushed, and sucked a huff of air, bulging his cheeks like a chipmunk's. Then he let it all out, in a rush. Time to get down and dirty, then.

"You know, Malfoy, me and Hermione, well. We're going to get married someday—"

"You actually popped the big 'Q', Weasley?" Draco managed to express just the right amount of amused shock to actually wind up Ron's relaxing frown back to the real thing. "Oh, but that's excellent! Ten points to Gryffindor for managing to do this before you've turned thirty, Weasley! I shall go and collect my winnings from Zabini as soon as we're finished here."

"Shut _up_, Malfoy! We _are_—I just—You!" Red, then pale, then red again, Ron struggled visibly to clamp down a firm lid on his temper.

"I know, I _know_—you'll get to it," Malfoy smiled suavely and patted the red-headed youth on the shoulder in an annoyingly avuncular way. Ron scowled. "You're young yet, y'know? Plenty of time to save up for that all-important Bonding ceremony and so forth. And it's alright, Weasley, really—_I _believe you, even if no one will."

"You'd better, prat," Ron groused, finally allowing his mouth to quirk into an unwilling grin. It was a running joke 'round Hogwarts—even _he_ knew about it—about how long it had taken him to progress beyond 'teaspoon' level. He didn't dare ask his girlfriend if he'd managed to rise above cutlery yet. "And stop taking the piss on me, alright? I'm trying to say something important here."

"So…?" Malfoy's shoulders were nowhere near as tense as they'd been at the beginning of this odd interview. He lounged back, settling comfortably against the rough-hewn wall and propping a foot flat against it, bending his knee so he could balance his bookbag on it. "You were saying, Weasley?"

"Well…what about you and Harry? What are _you_ going to do, Malfoy?"

_-o0o-_

_Hogwarts, November, 1999_

"Harry."

Draco was on his knees in the Owlry and Harry thought he never looked so good, stray feathers in his hair, owl shite speckling his trousers and nose wrinkled up to fend against the pungent odour. It _was_ an odiferous place to meet, true, but it was out of the common way and it was warm, something they'd both come to appreciate as the Highland autumn daily grew cooler.

"Oh, gods, Harry. So hard." Draco pulled off and regarded the wet cock bobbing before his nose proudly. He licked it again, digging his tongue 'round the edges of the foreskin, teething ever so lightly at the point where the shaft blossomed into the swollen, blunted head. "So hard."

"For you," Harry moaned, struggling to open his eyes wide enough to watch. "Only for you." He dragged at Draco's shoulders in a sudden lunge forward, practically puncturing the wool with raggedy fingernails, attempting to get him as close as humanly possible.

"Only for me, please. Keep it that way, alright?" Draco whispered when he next surfaced to breathe, but he didn't glance up to see if Harry heard him. There was a large part of him that daily wondered about the viability of this whole situation. They'd managed two months unnoticed except by the more perspicacious students—Nott, Bulstrode, Parkinson; Thomas, Granger (of course), the Weasel and Longbottom—but they were playing with fire on a daily basis. And the Weasel was just percolating and ready to blow off gusts of steam—and misplaced anxiety—at any moment, and bring the whole house-of-cards down upon their heads.

It was a dangerous position, being Harry Potter's lover. And Hasrry hadn't heard him just say that—and that was alright, too.

"Mmmm. Just there—oh! Just there!" Harry was sucking air; Draco happily returned to sucking cock with a vengeance, his lips and tongue and his swallowing throat sculpting Potter's dick into a thing of sodden velvet over rigid steel. It pulsed in his mouth, quivering with every inhalation, and leaked sticky salt slime down his gullet, so that he was driven to swallow harder still.

Indeed, both were happy in their own way, even if Draco's boney knees twinged painfully on the hard stone paving and Harry was quite close to hyperventilating with his head tipped all the way back like that and his mouth gaping open. There were worse things than physical discomfort, after all. Such as not doing this.

"Yesss…!" Harry sounded as if he might slip into Parseltongue any moment. Draco shivered and sucked even more vigourously, throwing all his might into it. "Yesss!"

"Har—" The thought of that sibilance happening had Draco so hard he seriously spared some worry to burning a hole through his own still-buttoned trousers with the force of his coming ejaculation. Because it _was _coming. He closed his eyes.

"Fuck! Draco—fuckfuck_fuck!_"

"Ngh!"

Harry let go with a shout, choking himself after into happy, panting, incoherent little gasps, and Draco surged up between his widely gaping knees to swallow the tiny, lovely noises with his smeared lips and aching tongue, sending a leg flying over one of Harry's and frantically rubbed himself off against the stiff ridges of Harry's rumpled denim trousers… and he was quite happy, too, a moment after.

"Good?" Draco could feel the satisfied smirk right through his damp scalp.

"Yeah—good. Idiot."

_-o0o-_

"I'm not sure why you believe this to be your business, Granger."

Malfoy turned on his heel sharply and stopped. They were halfway between Professor Sprout's newly rebuilt greenhouse classroom and the equally recently reconstructed main entrance, and a steady stream of students returning passed them in gluts and droves, all unawares—_not_.

"It's my business because it's Harry, Draco. And it's _your_ problem, so what are you going to do about it?"

Malfoy waited till Granger stepped off the path. They drew to one side, heads close together, both well aware of the always listening ears. Draco cast a Muffliato to be sure.

"Nothing, as there is no actual problem. We go on as we have, Granger. If Harry wants to change something in the future, I'm sure he'll let me know. Till then—"

"It's been noticed now, Draco. People talk, and they talk about Harry."

"And?" Grey eyes met brown, and pale brows were on the offensive, climbing high in challenge. "I care why?"

"It's not right, you know," Hermione was uncomfortable but clearly determined. "He doesn't need that type of attention on top of everything else."

"So?" Draco wasn't helping this. Granger could spin widdershins in her bloody concern till she drilled her pointy head into the ground, but in no way would Draco help her. But–clearly—she didn't need his aid to keep running her mouth.

"So," Hermione went on, brows beetling, as they always did when she was stating what she perceived to be _fact_, "after Ginny and Cho and poor Cedric and god-knows-who else Harry's ever crushed on, I don't think he needs you- of all people- to mess with his heart and then let him down. You're practically guaranteed to hurt him, Malfoy, whether you intend to or not; it's already a recipe for disaster, even now."

"Really?" he sneered. " I don't think so, Granger. In fact—"

Draco drew back on his heels, rocking slightly, his chin raised high. He looked at his fellow war veteran down the length of his very straight nose and pursed his lips in a mocking, superior smile. The vagaries of following Potter had brought them closer, but there would always be a distance never bridged.

He knew that; she knew that. But civility was not an issue; they were adults, despite the childish surroundings of boarding school. He'd keep it clean, then.

"Thanks so very much for your special vote of no confidence, Granger, not that it makes the slightest bit of difference, you realize. I've told you—if Harry wants something different, then it'll be different. If you think I'm bowing out of his life one single, solitary second before he tells me to, you're flat out barking."

"You don't mean that, Malfoy. You can't." Hermione shook her head sharply, sending her brown curls dancing.

"Of course I mean it," Draco huffed. "Why on earth would I bother with a truthful response to your intrusive and inane questioning into my personal life—_Harry's_ personal life, mind you; not just mine— if I were just intending to blow smoke?" He shrugged, and took a step back, suddenly eager to end something that likely would never be resolved—at least not to their satisfactions. Neither could win, could they?

"Look, I've no reason to lie to you, Granger. Certainly not about Potter. You know as well as I do he tells you and the Weasel everything he does, practically down to when he takes a whiz. How should I ever get away with anything nefarious?"

Hermione shook her head again, more slowly now, and shifted her heavy armful of books so that she could fiddle with a sleeve. A silence fell as she considered, and Draco waited patiently, wanting to hear whatever she had to say in response—because there was no doubt in his mind Harry would hear about this little _tête-à-tête _as well, in excruciating detail, and he refused to fight blindly.

In a moment, she looked back up and met his eyes squarely. He winced at the pity there, and straightened his spine in response.

"No—no, what I was actually referring to was the 'different'. It won't be, will it? You'll never allow it to be, not in the long run. I've watched you, Draco, over the years. You're the one who's barking, and it's all for Harry. You've got your claws in and now you'll never let go. Obsessive-compulsive behaviour, you know; there's a term for it. You're fixated on him, and it's not right, that. Harry's not an object—"

"Granger—" Draco began impatiently, but she was on a regular rant, and kept right on speaking, her voice gaining confidence as she went.

"Look, I do know he was very important to you during the war, Draco, and I realize he's been there for you and your mum after, and I do feel sorry for you both, believe me, but he's not a Saviour anymore. He's not some idol and he's not—well, you can't make him your personal hero, you realize. You can't just latch onto him and not let him have a chance at other people—he's only seventeen, Draco. So are you, for that matter. Be reasonable. Let it go now. Find someone else."

Draco glared at her, his face tight. His gloved knuckles tightened just the same on the strap of his book bag.

"Oh, yes, Granger—and that's completely different from your emotions for Weasley? The goggle-eyed way you watch him when you think he doesn't see, as if he were some sort of Muggle superhero? The way you always defer to him, and pander to his every wish and want when half the time he can't even articulate _what_ he wants or _why_?" Draco hauled in a breath and kept going. It was his turn now, finally.

" The fact that he's the very first person your eyes turn to when he enters a room? That sort of thing? It's all very sweet, Granger; don't misunderstand me. It's sodding romantic and I've nothing against it—and nothing against romance in general. But if you—you, of all people—dare claim those actions of yours are the result of a healthy 'normal' relationship, completely uncoloured by all the life-altering events you've—_we've_ all survived these last few years? Pah!" His spit nearly sprayed in her face, clouding the cold air between them. "I don't think so."

Hermione pursed her lips and licked them quickly, parting them, but never got an opening.

"No, I don't bloody think so!" Draco was shouting now, Silenced behind the Muffliato. "You're deathly afraid of losing your Weasel, Granger—admit it! You've seen his mortality dangling by a lousy thread right in front of your nose and you're bloody _terrified_. It's not just lovey-dovey teenaged romance, Granger, is it? It's far deeper than that and bung full of _fear_. For Merlin's sake, woman—don't you realize I'm in the same bloody position as you are! And ,worse yet, _I _had to hear he was dead and could do nothing about it! Not a single thing but wait and hope to Salazar that he had it all planned—that he'd mapped it all out and that it was just a trick to fool the bloody Dark Lord, another one of his party tricks he does so well!"

"He's not—no! Malfoy!"

"Why would—_no_, how _dare _you go about defending your feelings as sacred and good and fucking perfectly normal and then say mine are not, simply because they're _mine_?" Draco demanded, cutting her off. "Why _is_ that, Granger, d'you think? A little leftover Death Eater mudslinging on your part? Or is it a little too much over-protectiveness for someone you still see as an abused boy? He's _not_ a bloody child, by Salazar—leave him the fuck alone! Let him live, for once!"

Hermione gasped, as if he'd physically slapped her, harder yet than she'd ever slapped him. He'd never—never—once said that much to her, not even when they'd had their brief meetings to turn over information, nor even when they'd been assigned the rebuilding of the damaged kitchens, forced into yet more uncomfortable collaboration by sheer circumstance. It was shocking—Malfoy's words were shocking. It was if there was a whole other Malfoy, burning bright beneath the icy mask she recognized.

Hermione was staggered—because, beyond the oppressive weight of Malfoy's words, there was truth. That was exactly how she regarded her boyfriend: precious beyond words. Her reason for living.

She scrambled for words to return. Truly, she didn't want to hurt him—could understand, even, the fascination with Harry. Weren't they all a little in love with Harry? Why not Malfoy, too? But—but, it still wasn't _right_. She stuck to that, all her innate stubbornness—the same that would not admit defeat before a bloody mad man—kicking in like an angered mule.

"No! Not at all, Draco!" she protested, straight off. "I'm not implying your 'feelings', as you call them, are less than mine, in _any_ way, but—but, this is Harry!" she wailed, and dropped her books to stick her hands out and grab his wrists.

"_Harry._ He doesn't know how it works, Draco and when you're done—when you're finally bored, or you tire of him, or move on simply because it's expected of you or the pressure's too much from the media—well, it'll just destroy him, Draco. He's not like that. Not like you—or _me_. He'll be crushed."

Malfoy smiled at her, and it was a glittering, dangerous bearing of teeth, with not a single thing jolly or lighthearted about it. For a blink or two, all Hermione could see was the bones of his skull, limned bleach white under the stretch of his fine-grained skin.

His eyes bored into her. The teeth became yet more evident, and Hermione all at once understood the Death's Head of the Mark—the _why _of it. It was bloody terrifying to watch someone want something—someone—more than life…perhaps that was where Voldemort had failed. He'd not had the right motivation.

"'I'm not planning on being 'done', Granger," Draco advised her, calmly plucking her fingers free and jerking his wrists free of her clinging. He stepped back, and shrugged her off entirely, a careless wave of one hand gathering up her books and stacking them neatly. They hovered in a towering mass of book learning, politely, waiting till he was finished speaking. "Not ever. That's what 'obsessive' is all about. And you'd do well to remember that."

He turned on his heel and stalked away, perfectly composed, and Hermione watched him go, and marvelled that she'd never before truly considered him a worthy threat.

Now she did.

_-o0o-_

_Hogwarts, August, 1999_

"You know, I could get used to this," Harry rolled over, taking Draco with him. The mattress was narrow and none too springy, and the sheets were common hotel ones, but neither minded.

"Umm," Draco may or may not have nodded into Harry's hair, but it was wild and at its fullest, so Harry didn't notice.

"Good," he replied, as if Draco had. "I've a thing lined up with the manager, so we can come back Friday and stay through the weekend—"

"Harry." Draco sat up so fast he made the bed ripple. "Are you sure that's a good idea?"

Harry cocked a brow at him, and folded his arms behind his head.

"You want to sneak around forever, Malfoy?"

"Tch! That's not the question, Potter! What I want and what we both need are two separate things—"

"I don't see it that way, Draco." Harry's tone was adamant. "And neither do you, if you think about it. Be honest, please. Do you want to do that forever? Because if we continue to hide it, people will start thinking it's worse than it is—that we _need_ to hide it. And I don't. Do you?"

There was a long silence and then Draco laughed: a sharp, grating sound with little or no real amusement to it.

"No, of course not," he admitted. "And you know it, Harry. But I was thinking that my mother and Aunt Andromeda don't really need to have a storm of media interest to contend with, and that you need to study for NEWTS, as do I, and perhaps the less said right now, the better. There is such a thing as timing, Harry. I'm sure you've heard—"

"I don't care, Draco. Not a whit. Not a fucking sickle about the media, or NEWTS, or timing," Harry sat up and put his hands out, resting them on Draco's bare shoulders.

"You know…" he started, his voice meditative, "Hermione asked me what I want—what I intended to do after this."

"Yes?" Draco was still, though Harry, glancing down, noticed his fingers tightening on the sheets bunched across his lap.

"Not this," Harry waved at their tangled legs and the bunched-up sheets, "exactly. She meant Eighth Year. With my life."

"Yes?" Draco asked again, his eyes steady on Harry's face, never leaving the dilated pupils, the corners narrowing in cogitation. "What'd you say to her, then?"

"Well…I wrote—I mean she wrote me, on my birthday," Harry obviously felt the need to give this foray into more serious thoughts of the future some helpful background detail. "Wishing me a happy birthday and all. And she told me all about her parents and what Ron was doing with George and that sort of thing. And then she asked me what was I doing? Did I have plans? And I—well, I—"

"Yes, Harry?"

"I wrote back that I wanted to try normal, for once. You know—be someone, just anyone, that no one would bother about. Just another Wizard, for once. Like that. Get a job, go to uni—not in that order, but you know, right? What I mean?"

"…Yes." Draco carefully untangled his fingers; brought them up and gently smoothed Harry's hair back from his furrowed forehead. "I do. A little at a time, though, Potter. Be patient."

Harry smiled—full and bright, to rival the moon. He chuckled and butted his head into Draco's fingers like some over-large specimen of a Kneazle, on the prowl for pets. "You're right—which I don't like, mind you—but you are. I'm just impatient, but I want this, Draco. I want this, just so much. And I deserve it, too."

"I know," Draco's voice was little more than a murmur. He leant forward and Harry put his arms out automatically and Draco did too, and then they were holding each other up, in the centre of the mattress. Not lost, precisely, but not 'found' yet, either. "I know you do, Harry. And it's alright. It'll work out. Things do, if you give it time. Look at us."

"Yeah," Harry was chuckling again, and he wriggled under the weight of Draco's longer arms and fingers, like a Crup puppy instead of a Kneazle. "Yeah, yeah—that's all I do see, these days. Your ugly mug, git, everywhere I look. Bloody Malfoy," he said, teasing. He was giddy, mercurial when finally met with understanding. No one had bothered with that before Malfoy did. They saw what they saw, and it was not always Harry. "Getting a little tired of that same old, same old hairstyle, I am. Grow it long, why don't you? I want to play with it. Braid it, maybe."

"Pouf," Draco growled, willing to play. "I'll shave yours off; see how you like it then, baldy."

"Can't," Harry taunted. "My hair has a mind of its own. Won't let you. More powerful than anything, my hair. Could've used it against—against—"

"More powerful than your brain, prat," Draco poked his nose mock-belligerently into Harry's debated hair, seeking the hidden whorls of ear, seeking to distract Harry from where his thoughts had wandered. Besides, he loved Harry's ears with a fine, pure passion. So delicate, they, and the lobes like overripe fruit, sweet and dainty when he suckled them. He did this even as he thought of it and Harry's shifting skin grew hotter all over, flushing in the dim light.

"Again?" Harry asked, when he could unclench his teeth. Ears drove him into fits of pinch-faced desire. Draco felt his cock pulsate where it lay against his stretched thigh—he grinned at it, grinned at Harry, turning blindly. "Malfoy?" His voice was thin and strained.

"Again."

Draco gave him salvation, and took his own.

_-o0o-_

_The Leaky Cauldron, Diagon Alley, London, December, 1999_

"Not your best idea ever, Potter."

"No?" Harry turned from the window, his eyes meditative. Draco watched him carefully.

"Don't you think it will fly over as well as a lead balloon, Potter?" he asked, a supercilious lilt in his voice that he knew from experience Harry detested. "That the _Prophet_ won't be all over it, flies on shite, and to both our detriments? There are easier ways of doing this, you know. Not everything must be instantly cast as an epic confrontation."

"Yeah?" Harry cocked his head at him; strolled closer. "And we have to start somewhere, Malfoy. Might as well be here and it might as well be Christmas shopping, and, if they don't like it, they can bloody pound sand. Supposed to be a season of goodwill toward all men, remember? Don't think for a moment I won't remind them of that, if need be."

Draco huffed, turned away.

"You saw Tom's face, Potter—and he's fond of you—"

"They're all fond of me, Draco," Harry smirked. "This will make them sit up and take notice, that's all. _Fond_ doesn't confer rights over my personal life."

"And your personal life is just that, Potter," Draco spat back, "personal! As is mine! And, you know, _I_ don't need this. I don't want it—all the nine day's wonder of it focused on me, and_ my_ life and _my_ business. Andy and Mum and Teddy don't need it either. Leave well enough alone, Potter—for once in your life."

Harry spun away, back to the window. He peered out in the short dusk, watching lights flicker on all up and down Diagon. Shoppers abounded, undeterred by the frost in the air, the crowds.

"That's just it, Draco," he muttered. "It's not 'well enough'—far from it. And it needs to be dealt with now, not later, after they've all had the chance to settle in and get comfortable. It needs light and air, Draco, if it's going to heal—if I am."

He turned his head sharply, presenting his profile.

"Or perhaps that's not part of your agenda in re-establishing yourself and the family Malfoy? Perhaps this is just a little something in passing—keep your cock occupied and happy whilst you slog through NEWTS?"

"Fuck you, Harry!" Draco was on him, already punching. They went down in a flurry of fists and huffing, furious insults, till Draco finally got his mouth over Potter's filthy still-pouring stream of garbled invective and silenced it.

"Shut it—shut it, Harry!" he ordered, nipping sharp. "Don't fucking say shite like that! I've not stuck by you for this long to be accused like that, you bastard! Of course you're on my agenda—you fucking _are _my agenda, Harry! Don't you know that by now?" he demanded.

"Draco—"

"Speccy head's up your fucking arse all the fucking time, that's what! Don't know what you're on about, you nit; don't even know what you're saying to me—to my face! Merlin, Harry, you're a bloody _bastard_, you are—I don't fucking _deserve _that! Take it back!"

"Draco, Draco," Harry was snogging him dementedly, all over his flushed, fury-taut face, his still-too-tight mouth. "Draco, no—stop, please. I'm sorry,_ sorry_, alright? Just stop—_stop_!"

"You stop, Potter!" Not in the slightest appeased, Draco stared at him furiously, noting the brand-new black eye and the thin trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth. "Stop fucking ruining it by shoving it in everyone's faces! I've waited this long, Harry, and I can damned well wait a while longer, alright?"

"But—"

"_No_ buts, Harry," Draco snapped back. "Don't you see what they'll do? We'll be pilloried, Harry; it's too soon—too fresh. You need to just get on with it quietly—maybe even go out of the country—and let others fight that battle for a while. It doesn't have to be _you_, Harry. There's enough godsdamned hate crimes already, Harry—you don't think one of those crazies isn't a nutter enough not to try and take the Saviour out just for being a poufter? Because there's one out there, Harry. There's always one, just like there's always some stupid super-villain in the making. And they don't care who they kill or how messy it is—they just want to make a statement. They won't care if it's _you_, Harry, and _I_ do. _I_ do, damn it!"

"Draco?"

Draco's face was wet. He tasted salt and it wasn't just the blood from Harry's split lip. It was the tears he'd shed if Harry lost. If some brain-bollixed basketcase caught him at a bad moment and killed him, because it _could_ bloody well happen. It didn't take a damned Dark Lord—no one was safe from bloody zealotry.

"Gibraltar, Harry," he offered up, his voice reedy, tumbling out in a steady stream that built and built, till it overwhelmed and carried away all objections before it, in the exact same way the winter melt fed the freshets, joining streams and rivers, to the ocean wide. "S'got a decent uni and they could give a Crup's arse there what or who you sleep with, as long as you're not hurting anyone. Or wherever else there's some sort of _real _culture, Harry—some set of people who haven't got wild hairs up their arses about who you're shagging and whether it's male or female or a bloody hippogriff! Switzerland, perhaps; I'll look into it—I just need a decent Arithromancy programme, that's all, and _you_ need Potions, Harry. We'll find one, trust me—a good one. One that will work for both of us, I promise. _I promise_."

"Draco," Harry nuzzled his head into Draco's shoulder comfortably. "Draco." And it was benediction and forgiveness and agreement, all in one.

And Draco knew he'd kept Potter safe again, somehow. He tightened his hold in gratitude and they rocked—they rocked, ever so gently, and let the gale subside.

_-o0o-_

_Hogwarts, May 1st, 2000_

_In fire, in green wood,_

_In wode and the juice of sloe plum_

_In spark, and the points of Herne's antlers_

_In blood, bone and tooth—in __**fire**__! _

_In fire, in felled limb_

_In clay, white as snow, and peat bog_

_In spark, and the bay of HellHounds trailing_

_In fire—blood, tooth and __**bone**__!_

And so went the refrain, repeating to the beat of a slow drum. On the fifth—or perhaps the fifteenth; Harry had lost count by then—the agonized, eerie wail of bagpipes joined it, and yet more dancers came.

They were farmers, herders, and neighbors in Hogsmeade; they were professors and the Ministry's Forestry Wizards. They were Gypsies, come for this one night only, their ragtag caravans bright in the moonlight, all their cracked and chipping paint just as new.

They were students—Eighth Years, and some Seventh, ripe at ages seventeen, eighteen and even twenty—all for Beltane, at last. No more children's crackers and scattered sweets from the Green Man, they. It was full wonder that was true Beltane for them, at the last.

Mead flowed, warmed by the fires, of which there were Three. Elfin wine was to be had by the skin and the cask, and there were pointy ears to be glimpsed among the company. Centaurs and Wizards, Witches and ghosts cavorting in waver, uneven circles, hands in the air, clapping—and was that not the former Headmaster there, robes twirling, his heels high and merry?

All gathered; toasting, feasting, dancing—singing, laughing, till the laughter died away with the flying vermillion cinders and drunken gasps and giggles followed, blessed under the viridian boughs of the Lady and the Hunter—and the Hunt stayed to drink to the sighs of lovers hidden in bowers, and the ever-patient elders, keeping watch by the Three. Feeding it.

"To the Fires," roared a great antlered man, and all the Three burnt high—higher, tall spires of flame green, blue and white, dwarfing the Hogwarts towers in the smoky distance. "May they burn yet ever bright for the Realm!"

"To the Fires! To the Fires!" echoed the company—and it was so, all across the crisscrossing lines of ancient territories, salted and primed with the blood of Saxons and Romans, Visigoths and knights of yore, Roundheads and cassocked pious gentlemen. All mingled, all mixed, all ash and dust now.

All soil—fertile soil; the womb of Gaia and virginal Persephone, renewed with fire. Drenched with wine and cum.

"Fire!" they catcalled, and virgins trembled—first kiss, first grope, first tumble. "FIRE!" they hooted and whistled and familiar lovers exchanged knowing glances in the long, silky grasses of the lea—and so much more.

_**FIRE! **_

Harry and Draco stumbled into the outskirts of the Forbidden Forest sometime after two a.m., drunk as houses and snorting with laughter as they tore off robes and half-masks—smeared wode and kisses across heated skin. Nearly fell into the tiny stream that ran there; landed on the moss bed only by good fortune.

"Fuck me, fuck me till I can't breathe—kill me with you," Harry heard, and fumbled his wand into doing what he wanted—no clothes; something oily, please and thank you!—and then silenced his lover's pleading as only he knew how.

_-o0o-_

_Malfoy Manor, April, 2000_

"You'll both be attending, then, Draco?" Narcissa enquired. She'd one eye on Teddy's antics all the while; Draco had grown used to receiving only a part of his mother's attention—there were so many more people in her life now, it seemed, despite the war's gruesome death toll.

He didn't mind it, not at all. Her heart was open to Harry and that was all that mattered to him. The git had found Narcissa's sole Horcrux, in a way, though perhaps that was a strange view of it, Draco allowed. But he was allowed his eccentricities, as a Malfoy. And his mother did love him. Loved them both, really.

He nodded, his expression calm and untroubled. "I think likely we'll both be accepted, yes. Term starts in August, but we'll need quarters."

"Not at the uni, though?" His mum raised a brow, silently decrying blocks of flats on general principle. Draco hid his smile. Sometimes the sounds of others living their lives—like bees in a massive hive—was a comfort, but no. He and Harry would find a location a little more private, he was certain.

Privacy would be a comfort, too. It grew wearing, watching Harry's life being constantly invaded. He did his best to be a bulwark—his reputation for being a charming bastard was very helpful, there—but still. The less attention paid to Harry right now, the better. He'd be healthier for it.

"I'll transfer the funds, darling. Your father had established a vault, of course, when you were born."

"Thank you, Mother," Draco smiled. The prospective housing had just edged up a notch in location and quality. "That's very thoughtful of you—and Father, too, of course." Draco nodded, closing his eyes and sending a silent bow to his now-deceased _pater_, residing in whichever incarnation of Heaven, Hell or Limbo he might be consigned to at the moment. Draco hoped for a Buddhist spin, but had no interest in having Father as a reincarnated close relative. Last thing he or Harry would ever need—Lucius Malfoy cast up by the vengeful Fates as a prospective son or daughter—but that was the cart seven leagues or more before the horse.

He shuddered in passing horror, though, and discreetly sketched the sign against foul machinations of fate and fortune, just in case.

"And Harry—does _he _need anything?" Narcissa continued, her voice delicate as the enquiring brow she arched. "Because of course there's more than Galleons enough, darling—"

"Mum," Draco stopped her with another smile—a very warm one this time, that had his eyes glittering bright and soft in the late afternoon light. "It's alright. He's well-off, Harry is. Might even have a leg up on_ our_ Galleons, after Reparations."

"Oh," Narcissa grinned—grinned! (She did that now, all due to young Ted, Draco exulted)—into her teacup. "I'm glad, love. Such a sweet boy, Harry. He deserves only the best."

"Yes, Mum," Draco could only agree, because he truly was sweet, the cocky, irrepressible runt, and Draco was the audience of one, who tasted honey daily. "I'll tell him you said so," he added, merely to tease. Mum grinning like the famed Cheshire was such an awesome sight, especially for Draco, used to years of her demure, sedate glints of rare amusement. He reveled in it, as he reveled in Teddy's sticky fingerprints all over Father's study.

"Oh, don't! Draco, really!" Narcissa exclaimed, rising to track that selfsame Teddy's progress 'round a whatnot table heaped with china shepherdesses. "_No_, darling, don't touch!" she scolded, a little more loudly, and the Lupin cub promptly drew his grubby little paw back, just in time. A figurine trembled, priceless crook aquiver, and recovered herself with a painted scowl.

"Good sweetiekins," she purred, scooping the little boy up handily, and shoving her fragile teacup at Draco simultaneously. "Who's the very good boy, then?" She pawed over him, checking for damage and stray small bits-and-pieces he could swallow; a lioness snuffling possessively over her adopted young.

"Grananhhha! Grummm!" Teddy squealed and giggled and then proceeded to drool toothily, his way of expressing love at this stage. Draco snorted in amused resignation, and gave up on pursuing his mother's actual attention: it was so clearly otherwise occupied.

But he didn't mind—not in the slightest. It would be best for Mother to have Teddy and Aunt Andy with her and not to have the slightest need for concern over her terribly press-worthy and publicly reformed Death Eater son. Best all around, for the lot of them.

He, too, could use a surcease in the relentless publicity. It wasn't pleasant, being branded various rude names simply because he was sometimes seen in Potter's company. Excellent to know his mum approved of the plan to vacate.

Too, though it galled the Weasel and the Granger no end, even they agreed Harry'd be better off outside the shores of bonny England for a time. There'd be nothing to prevent Draco from carrying his Potter away with him, come summer's end.

Not a single, bloody thing.

_-o0o-_

_Hogwarts, mid-June, 2000_

"I can't fucking well believe it," Ron sighed, folding his arms. "You're really doing this, mate, aren't you?"

"Yeah, Ron," Harry glared at him suspiciously, looking a bit tense 'round the shoulders. "I really am."

Draco crowded closer, without realizing it, until Harry nudged him out of the way, reaching 'round the jut of his hip for one the huge bags of Honeyduke's treasures he and his fellow Gryffindors had scarfed up the day before, on a final visit.

_Sentimental claptrap_, Draco sneered (though he'd secretly placed an order for a year's supply of lollies whilst Potter wasn't looking) at the time. Potter had scoffed...and proceeded to practically buy out the shop.

"_We_ are," he added, merely to annoy, and raised his chin at the Weasel. Granger giggled.

"You two," she laughed, and hugged Harry, her elbows budging him further out on the edge of the circle. "You're priceless."

Harry smiled—slow, as if he didn't want to. He cocked a wary eye at the ginger bulk who was taking up Draco's rightful space. Who sighed yet again, loudly, and shrugged yet again.

"Well, alright—if that's how it is," Ron puffed out his cheeks and shuffled himself into the mini-group hug Harry and the Brain had going. "I suppose…"

"Yes, Ron," Harry prompted, the tiniest of edges still to his voice. "You suppose?"

"I can deal."

"I certainly hope so, Ron!" Granger attempted to be stern; failed miserably—all three of them laughing uproariously; Harry gasping 'Thanks so much, Father Ron!' and even Draco—_even Draco_—

Pulled into Harry's orbit, though it was much against his dignity—hauled there by the arm that snaked out-to send him tripping and fumbling over the heap of freckled arms akimbo and shuffling feminine and masculine feet, as they _all _stumbled about like bloody fools on the Hogsmeade platform: a snorting, breathless muddle of feckless youth—pulled in, inescapably.

Like gravity.

Finite


End file.
